But he should not have it—he _must not_ have it; she would make a bold fight, frail woman though she was, before she would yield up the only thing in the world that would clear her betrothed lover’s name from dishonor. She had one hope, else her courage would have failed her utterly—the policeman whom she had asked to have a care for her safety and who had been so civil to her. But she had been gone much longer than she had told him she would be, and possibly he had become tired of waiting for her and gone away. A tumult of thoughts like these filled her mind and nearly bewildered her, but above and over all was a stern determination never to part with that paper until all the world should know of its contents. Convinced that the face no longer glared upon her, she slipped it within her bosom and buttoned her dress close over it. Then she arose to go. Yes, she could not bear to leave that dying man, perhaps never to see him alive again, without a few comforting words. His own last words had told her that he feared the future—that he dreaded to go forth into the great and mysterious eternity, and she longed to give him a little cheer, even though she knew that every moment’s delay but increased her own danger. “I must leave you now,” she said, gently, and bending nearer to him, a great pity shining in her lovely face; “and I thank you more than I can tell you for the act of justice that you have at last done.” “I thank _you_, miss,” he said, feebly, and with quivering lips, “for being so kind and gentle to me, and I hope you’ll forgive me as well for my share in that night’s business,” he concluded, humbly. _Could_ she forgive it? Editha’s heart gave a little startled leap at the humble request. She could readily forgive the robbery, and the loss of so much that was valuable; but could she forgive the wrong done to Earle? Could she ever overlook those long, weary days of suffering which he had borne—the scorn, insult, and abuse heaped upon him, and the disgrace which had followed him ever since? But he was to be free from it all at last. To be sure, those years could not be given back to him, but all other fetters were to drop from him. She held the key that was to unlock them, and John Loker, the man now asking so meekly for pardon, had given it to her. “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” The divine words came to her like a message of light. “Yes, I do forgive you,” she said, sweetly; “and God will forgive you even more freely, and take away all the dread you have of the future, if you ask Him.” “Thank you _again_, miss; those are _good_ words,” he said, with a sigh of relief and thankfulness that she had forgiven him. “And cannot you believe them,” she asked—“that God will forgive you, too?” He shook his head wearily. “My mother used to teach me about God when I was a boy, but I’ve forgotten Him, and been bad for so long, that I guess I ain’t of much account to Him now.”